Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
“It’s so wonderful to see him this happy,” she says with an approving smile. “He hasn’t stopped smiling since he crossed the finish line.”
And then, more people come over. And more. And more.
They all congratulate me - me, as if I’m the one who just won the damn Grand Prix.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath as another approaches.
Emma, meanwhile, is absolutely thriving, basking in every bit of attention.
“This is so much better than being a WAG in football,” she gushes, practically vibrating with excitement. “So much classier.”
Jas snorts, shooting me a knowing look. “Enjoying yourself, girlfriend?”
I groan, burying my face in my hands.
After all, when I agreed to come on this trip just a few weeks ago, this was not what I’d expected.
* * *
I have no idea how much time passes by. All I know is that I’m still reeling from hearing Frederic call me his girlfriend on live TV as we stay in the Paddock Lounge, watching reruns of the race, of his victory, and of the subsequent celebration.
But I can’t focus. Not really.
Not when that word keeps echoing in my head, looping over and over, refusing to settle.
Frederic Moreau - cocky, insufferable, dominant Frederic - called me his girlfriend.
Publicly. Without hesitation.
Without asking me.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
I really liked it.
I’m still trying to process it, to make sense of the strange fluttering in my chest, when a staff member suddenly appears at the VIP lounge, standing just inside the doorway.
They clear their throat before addressing me directly.
"Mademoiselle Taylor?"
I blink, startled.
Usually, when Frederic summons me, it’s discreet - meant only for me. But this time, the staff member’s voice is clear, deliberate, carrying across the entire lounge.
"Monsieur Moreau invites you - and your friends - to join him."
There’s a split second of silence before the girls begin to chirp excitedly.
Emma grips my arm like she might faint.
“Fucking hell, Pops,” she squeals, and I try not to wince at her tight grip and her choice language in the middle of the fancy lounge. “Your boyfriend has summoned us all!”
"Guess I don’t have a choice, then," I mutter, cheeks burning as I stand.
"Nope," Jas smirks. "Now get moving before Emma combusts."
* * *
The staff member leads us through the paddock, weaving between fans, media personnel and special guests.
The energy is still buzzing from the race, the high of Frederic’s victory vibrating in the air.
I keep my head up, trying to act casual, but my heart is hammering in my chest.
It’s ridiculous, really. I’ve spent so much time with this man over the past few weeks, have had his hands on me in ways that should make me immune to feeling this flustered.
And yet, there’s something different about this.
Being invited into his world like this, brought into his inner circle, his team - it’s another level entirely.
Finally, we arrive at a private Mercedes hospitality suite, and the moment I step inside, I spot him.
He’s still in his race suit, and his damp hair is pushed back, his face flushed from exertion. There’s a champagne flute dangling loosely in one hand as he talks to a small group.
But the second he sees me, everything changes.
His entire expression shifts, his smirk slow and knowing as his eyes lock onto mine.
He sets his drink down, moving with the kind of confidence that makes my stomach tighten, that makes my pulse hammer against my ribs.
The room, the people, the chatter - it all blurs into the background as he crosses towards me, every step deliberate, every movement dripping with purpose.
My breath catches the moment he reaches me.
His hands find my waist with an ease that sends a shiver through me, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to remind me exactly who’s in control here.
Exactly who I belong to.
And without thinking - without hesitating - I throw my arms around his neck and press myself into him, holding on tight.
A shaky exhale escapes me as I bury my face in his shoulder, my heart pounding, my body thrumming with excitement, with pride, with something I can’t quite name - something warm and terrifying that I refuse to acknowledge just yet.
His body stiffens for the briefest second, like he wasn’t expecting this, but then he melts into me.
His grip tightens around my waist, one hand sliding up my back, the other pressing into my hip, pulling me flush against him as he lets out a quiet chuckle, his breath warm against my hair.
"Mon ange," he murmurs, his voice rough, almost tender. "If I knew winning would get this reaction, I would have done it sooner."
I laugh, my arms still looped around his neck, but I don’t let go. Not yet.
I exhale, trying not to melt into him completely. After a long beat, I finally release him and step back, my eyes dancing over him from head to toe.